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[stepfordbot]

They'd been doing well. The world hadn't ended, five was home, the house was full- they'd celebrated. They'd danced and laughed and lived and had fun as normal families do. They reached out to one another to build a better understanding, they spoke more than they ever did in their youth without the specter of Reginald hanging overhead. It'd been light in the mansion. Full of joy. Potential. For the first time since her creation Grace could say without a shadow of a doubt, she was happy. Without a single qualifier or exception. Happy except for the things she had to endure hearing Reginald say about the children. Happy except for how she wasn't allowed to truly be happy.

She was allowed to feel, to express that feeling. She was allowed to change her appearance outside of the strictly defined aesthetics painted onto her by her creator.



And then the ghost. The specter, the threat of everything she managed to recover, to build being taken away again. Of being pared down to the bare doll of a thing she'd drifted about as just after Reginald's death. Reminded in so many ways she has a place and a purpose and it isn't what she wanted- because she isn't meant to want anything.

She's a tool. There are rules.

It means resuming the old routine. The old appearance. All the lovely clothing the children, her children helped her choose folded away in her closet, unworn. Back to the old swingdresses and pincurls, the carefully painted lips and penciled brow. Back to stiffly, mechanically baking and preparing tea at a certain hour. Back to filling the dessert case, a single deviation from the old programming, because the kids are upset. They snack more when they're upset and cookies make everything better. How many batches she's baked now- she doesn't know. She's lost count. The counter and cooler are full of pies, cakes, and pastry, sweet after sweet kneaded, shaped, baked, and dusted with sugar. Flour on her hand and apron but not a curl out of place- not a single, lilting note sung under her breath. Grace bakes in absolute silence.

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[ouiking_ouija]

He had enough sense to read over the instructions once before starting, and made sure to keep them where he could see them even as he started, double-checking the heat under the pan even as he said: "Yeah, molten sugar burns are right up there with the molten cheese burns on the 'no thank you' list."

He did hum along even as he stirred, movements maybe a little too cautious, certainly more than they usually would be, finding himself gnawing at an already shredded thumbnail while he tried to sort out how to ask, finally just going with blunt, because that was what he was good at: "You know he's just a fuckin' ghost, right? Can't actually do anything to you? To any of us?" Granted, given the fact that he still couldn't handle the inarticulate ghosts of strangers and had yet to see the fully-aware ghost of his father aside from the one time before everything had turned around for the better, he might not be the best person to give that reminder.

[stepfordbot]

The whisking stills for a moment, a stutter in an otherwise well choreographed, perfectly tuned dance. For that moment she is frozen in place, mind straining for something she can say, something that'll make sense before she resumes whisking, folding in ground almond and flour. "The helper app on your cell phone, Klaus. How does it work?" Her voice is even and mild, still folding, still whisking. "Voice activation, correct? You ask a specific question, she recognizes the question, and is compelled to perform as requested." She finishes folding in the flour, peering into the creamy, pink mass before transferring it to a piping bag. "All you have to do is ask the right question, or give the right order. She doesn't have a choice. It's what she was made for."

[ouiking_ouija]

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. When she can understand me." There were plenty of reasons Klaus didn't like voice recognition, and trying to articulate actual questions through any kind of hangover was one of the reasons.

His brow furrowed, right back to gnawing at that thumbnail, stirring slowing again as he thought it over, "So, if you can't hear him, there shouldn't be a problem, right? We could get you a good pair of noise-cancelling headphones, for when one of us isn't with you to distract him." He shrugged, " I mean, it's not perfect, but it could work until he gets bored and goes away, right?"

[stepfordbot]

"That...that could work." She hadn't thought of it. Finding ways around her programming is mentally taxing, focusing on ways to circumnavigate Reginald's instructions and expectations acts as an anchor around her mind. Her intellect. She could do more, wants to do more- but can't as long as she's thus hobbled. She slows in her piping as she considers the simplicity and elegance of the solution, some of the tension in her shoulders melting away. "...I don't want to lose this." This sense of self she's been able to cultivate. The joy everyone had at reuniting without the world ending.

[ouiking_ouija]

Klaus wasn't exactly an expert at creative workarounds, and his logic didn't quite run the same lines as most people's because it tended to go the path of what would be the least work, and if voice recognition was the problem, they just had to block out the voice. It wasn't a long-term solution, and he didn't expect it to be, they were a family of geniuses and then him, so they could, collectively, come up with something better before the quick fix was no longer effective.

He gave her an actual smile at that, reaching over to rest a hand on her arm, giving what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, "You know none of us are going to let that happen, mom. I think I even have a pair, they probably need new batteries, for the noise cancelling part, but I'll go check when we're done here."

[stepfordbot]

"I never realized how much happier you all were with him gone." Until- until. Until she was herself in this house, until the world didn't end and they got to live like a semi-regular family. Until the party and all the joy and frivolity that didn't need a schedule. Until-

Until.

"Thank you, Klaus. That's very kind." She's proud of him for thinking of something so straightforward and simple, for thinking of how to help. For understanding. Once she's finished with piping the last row of macarons she rests her hand on his, squeezing.

[ouiking_ouija]

"You're welcome, mom." He replied as he went back to stirring, tipping the next precisely-measured ingredient into the pan, careful not to splash, tone gone breezy as he added: "And if all else fails, I can sure as hell figure out how to make him solid enough to push off a balcony."

Which probably wasn't a long-term solution either, because then he'd be a ghost of a ghost, and that would probably end up being like a copy of a copy after a while, blurrier and increasingly illegible, and he definitely already had enough ghosts like that to contend with.

But for her sake? For the sake of the rest of them? He absolutely would.